Fearless
by ifithasapulse
Summary: A collection of Bela/Dean drabbles which detail just about any situation. Non-linear, sometimes AU.
1. No Baby

The sounds of a baby crying reached Bela's ears slowly, as though underwater. Turning her head on her pillow, she mumbled, "Dean, the baby's up."

"Hmm?" Dean rolled onto his side, lifting an eyelid to reveal a glimmering green eye.

Bela groaned into her pillow. Her muscles ached with exhaustion, but the sounds were getting distinctly louder. With an effort, Bela sat up, dislodging her cat from her chest.

For a second, she sat there, bewildered, trying to orient herself. Then she realized that her cat, now curled up on the radiator, was purring.

Not a baby.

Because, as any fool would know, she thought, her breath hitching, a baby was the farthest thing from their relationship possible.

_No baby._

And Bela didn't want a baby. God, why would she want a baby? And with Dean Winchester, no less?

But then, why did her heart ache so much? Why were her hands, fisted in the sheets, trembling? Why did her eyes sting with tears?

_No baby._

"Bela?"

She looked into Dean's sleepy green eyes and blinked away a tear. "Go back to sleep. It was nothing."

_No baby._

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><p><strong>AN: Hello, everyone! I know it's been ages since the last time I updated but I hope this to be the first installment is a collection of drabbles. Since I have lots of inspiration and zero time to write, making a collection of drabbles seemed like the best option. This is dedicated to the lovely Charmita, for always being wonderful and encouraging. I hope everyone liked this and whether you did or didn't, please leave a review telling me why or not. **

**Thanks very much.**


	2. Boiling Water

Sometimes, out of nowhere, the realization that Bela Talbot was perfection personified would knock Dean right off his feet.

Just a week ago, she had been boiling water to make tea, her hair pulled back into a loose bun and her bare skin glowing youthfully. She was barefoot, clad in a baggy faded black shirt that advertised an old British band and ragged plaid pajama pants. As she selected a tea bag from her vast storage, he watched the elegant curve of her neck, the graceful swiftness with which she walked.

"Dean?"

His gaze jerked up from where he had been observing the bones of her hands. She had beautiful hands, skilled and talented. They could switch from a brutal punch to the delicacy and sensitivity needed to pick a lock.

Rather like Bela herself, he reflected. Tough, intelligent, fragile, sneaky and with a certain air of sophistication to her. She was so perfect for him it made his heart ache.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." Dean grinned at her, suddenly feeling indescribably happy. He crossed to her in two long strides, sweeping her up into his arms and catching her by surprise.

He smiled down at her and kissed the tip of her nose then her lips, looking down at her as the happiest warmth spread across his chest. "There's absolutely nothing wrong, Lugosi."

Bela's skin flushed rosily under the intensity of his gaze and she began winding her arms around his neck. "I don't know what's gotten into you, Winchester, but I like it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is dedicated to the great fourteen miles away, who understands my Bela/Dean obsession better than I could hope. I wanted to write a purely happy Bela/Dean for once so here it is, albeit as a drabble. I hope everyone liked this and thanks for reading. Please review!  
><strong>


	3. Angry

"ARRRGH!"

Dean flinched as he entered Bela's apartment to hear her furious scream. The thief, who was currently abusing a shredded heavy bag in her small gym, inhaled deeply, then pounced on the again on the heavy bag, which swung back and forth as she kicked it.

After launching a series of spinning kicks and plain old hooks, Bela wrapped an arm around the bag to steady it, sucking in air as though she'd never breathed before. Sweat streamed down her face and her skin glowed with scarlet exertion.

"Hey."

Her head snapped up, eyes glittering ferociously. And uttered one word.

_"You."_

Instinctively, Dean began to back away, his hands rising as much to placate her as to defend himself.

Bela's chest was still heaving with both exhaustion and fury, beads of sweat glimmering along her exposed collarbone. Her hands balled into fists and she began stalking closer.

"Hey, easy, I didn't do anyth-"

"Didn't _do_ anything?"

Her voice was cool, deceptively so, Dean thought with equal parts apprehension and fear. Bela continued to approach, moving with the same predatory grace he was so accustomed to.

She suddenly slammed her hand into the wall behind him and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. "What the _hell_?"

Bela narrowed her eyes at him and moved closer, close enough for him to smell her shampoo. "You didn't do anything, Dean?"

"Please just tell me what I did, Bela, and I'll fix it."

Bela paused. "You'll fix it?"

"I swear, I'll fix it, whatever it is-"

"Can you fix _this_?_" _The thief hissed dangerously, slamming a newspaper into his chest.

Dean stared down at the headline, his brows furrowed. It spoke of a stolen emerald ring, one of infamous supernatural background. He glanced up, bewildered. "So?"

He instantly knew he had made a mistake.

_"So?"_

"I mean, why are you showing this to me?"

"You don't remember this ring?"

He blinked once, then again. "Am I supposed to?"

The breath whooshed out of her with a hint of a hiss. "This is the ring I was prospecting when you interrupted me."

"What? I don't remember-"

"March. It was rainy and I was wearing navy flats and a white pantsuit. In Lady Eleanor's manor up in Maine-"

Realization suddenly dawned on Dean. "Oh, yeah. I remember." He took another look at the newspaper. "So, this is the ring that got away?"

"Yes. And now, it's been stolen by someone else."

Her fury was beginning to make sense, he thought, apprehension mounting.

"Why means," Bela continued, her tone quickly becoming darker, "Dean, that out there, somewhere off in an opposite corner of the globe, is someone who managed to steal something that I didn't get around to."

"I mean, you _would _have," Dean tried. "It's just – well, you know. It's just that I was there and it got-"

Fire simmered in her dark eyes.

Dean hastily switched to a different tactic. Softening his expression, he tugged her closer, clasping her hips beneath his hands.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her ear. "It was a long hunt and I couldn't keep my hands off you."

She inhaled sharply as his lips cruised down her neck. "Wait. What-?"

"I love you," he added for good measure, nuzzling into her neck.

"Stop. This is not getting you out of trouble."

But her hands were already in his hair, Dean noted with a smirk, knowing he had avoided death this time. "I know, you can still be mad at me."

"I _am _angry with you." Bela struggled to maintain her composure. She had been angry about something, hadn't she?

"Mmmhmm."

"Oh, to hell with it. You'll pay for this tomorrow," she murmured against his mouth.

"I'm counting on it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is dedicated to my marvelous anon reviewer, M, who always comes back to read my Bela/Dean fics. I hope everyone liked this; I thought it was at least somewhat plausible, if a little OOC.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Stolen Goods

A pair of sunglasses are perched precariously on the end of Bela Talbot's nose as she lounges on a float in the pool, book in hand. Her left hand is wrapped loosely around an icy glass of lemonade with a tiny pink umbrella in it and in her right she holds a battered copy about the history of lock-picking. Her toes dip in the cool pool water, and her silky hair is tossed up into a high knot of tawny strands streaked with gold, kissed by the sun. A scarlet string bikini leaves little to the imagination, and a pair of glimmering gold hoop earrings adorn her ears.

She makes a picture, Dean Winchester thinks amusedly, trekking his way across the backyard until he was at the edge of the pool. He waits for her to take a sip of her lemonade before calling from the pool steps, "Hope you're wearing sunscreen, Lugosi. Wouldn't want you to burn that pretty skin of yours."

Bela's head whips around to face him, her eyebrows shooting up from behind her sunglasses. She almost drops her drink into the pool at the sight of him, which he can't help but grin at.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

She glares at him and he could swear he could feel the heat straight through her glasses. "How did you find me?" she hisses furiously.

He raises an eyebrow in surprise at her vehement tone. "What are you so upset about?"

"I'm in the privacy of my own pool, I'm trying to relax, I wasn't expecting you...what _else_ do I have to be upset about?"

"Well, don't be upset at all. I come bearing good news."

Bela shoots him a suspicious look over the top of her glass as she sips, trying to regain her cool. "This had better be damned good," she muttered. "Alright, I'm going inside to change. _ Don't_ follow me unless you want to die."

Dean watches her traipse inside the house, deciding it would be best to keep his distance until she cooled off her temper.

"Oh, and Dean?" Bela paused at the door, angling her head over her shoulder.

"Yeah?"

She smiles frostily. "You'll keep your eyes above my neck if you know what's good for you."

Dean swallows, keeping his eyes on hers with an effort. "I wasn't-"

"Yes, you were. So stop."

Fifteen minutes later, Bela is out of the house again, her hair soaking wet and her skin shimmering with sunscreen. She slides into a lounge chair across from Dean, and glares fiercely. "You came here to talk, so talk."

"No need to be so aggressive. Sammy and I wanted to let you know that your mojo bag, the one you lent us a few weeks ago, came in useful in hunting a demon."

"Really? I'm glad to hear it."

He hears the question in her tone even while she doesn't voice it. "So, in order to thank you, we decided to share the spoils with you."

Bela sits up a little straighter in her seat. "Oh? And what would a demon have that I would be interested in?"

"Not much," Dean replies, unable to hide a smile at her reaction. "A few stolen goods, that's all."

"And you want to give them to me?"

"Share," he corrects. "We want to share since you nicely shared with your mojo bag with us. Without it, this job would have been a lot harder."

"You held a gun to my head," Bela snorts, vividly recalling the occasion just a few weeks ago when the Winchesters had _robbed _her of her mojo bag. "I was robbed at gunpoint, hardly sharing out of the goodness of my heart."

"Insignificant. We're trying to play nice, Lugosi. Do you want the stuff or not?"

"Not as much as I want to know how you managed to find me."

"We know people who know people. We found out you were squatting here-"

"-house-sitting-"

Dean ignores her interruption. "So we brought the stuff around for you. By the way, you should really tell the people you're _house-sitting _for that they have lousy security."

"Dean, I'm not an idiot. I realize that the only reason you're sharing is so that in the future you can continue to take things from me and expect me not to get upset about it."

"You wound me."

"I'd like to. However, I will accept your...gifts. If I find anything I like, that is."

"I'm sure there's something for you in there."

"Well?" She demands. "Show me the things."

"Here." Dean slides a few leather pouches across to Bela, secretly glad to be rid of the things. They have dark magic, powerful magic. Certainly not the kinds of things he wants or needs, but he is sure Bela can sell at least one or two for a pretty penny.

Bela rifles quickly through the items, using her experience and native intuition to guide to her to the most valuable items. She pauses when she reached a sapphire pendant dangling on a thin gold chain, inscribed in Latin across the gold. "Is this cursed?"

"Yeah. It has bad history associated with it; apparently anyone who holds onto it for longer than a few days dies."

"And you wanted to give it to me? I'm touched," Bela smirks.

"I thought you could sell it quickly." Dean mutters, shifting a little in his seat.

"I intend to. In the meantime, you should make yourself scarce." Bela rises swiftly, and tucking the pouch with the pendent into her pocket, she walks back towards the house. "My house-sitting duties end in just a few hours, and I don't want to explain what you're doing here."

"Of course." For some odd, unexplainable reason that Dean doesn't want to ponder, he feels a little disappointed at being turned out so soon. Maybe for Bela, their relationship really is all-business.

"I'll walk you out," she adds, sensing his discomfort. She may have been many things, but Bela Talbot was also a lady, and Dean Winchester _had _just left her a gift.

"Ah-sure."

They walk in silence through the house, Dean taking in the details of the beautiful architecture with slight awe. "This is amazing."

She glances at him, surprised. "It is. These windows are stained-glass, imported from Italy. And the high, arched ceilings were designed by the Romans," Bela explains, feeling more than a little like a tour guide. She swivels around to gesture enthusiastically towards the tapestries lining the basement walls. "And these. These beauties were bought from an estate sale four years ag-"

Distracted by telling Dean about the house, her heel catches on a snag in the rug, and without more time than it takes to let out a soft curse, Bela's knee buckles.

Hastily preparing to break her fall, she spreads her arms out, but is merely caught and righted again. Inhaling deeply, Bela twists to face Dean, suddenly breathless.

"Thanks."

"Sure. You should...be more careful."

The atmosphere is thick with tension, and their words are uttered with a sort of quiet reverence.

Seconds tick by. Dean doesn't drop his hands from her waist.

Slowly, not wanting to break the magic of the moment, Dean lowers his head to hers, his heart beating faster. His lips have just brushed hers when the front door suddenly bangs open, and a masculine baritone calls out, "Bela! I'm home, darling. Sorry I didn't give you much warning, my flight was changed, and I came back early."

Dean's eyes fly open, and, not moving, he murmurs against her mouth, "Lugosi?"

"Yes?"

"Who the hell is that upstairs?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hi there! This is a little too long to be a drabble, but doesn't have enough plot to be a story on it's own, so here it is! Dedicated to fabulous Darz, who's reviews I love cherish. As always, thank you so very much for reading, and please leave a review!**

**P.S. -How do you all feel about a teenage Bela/Dean AU?**


	5. Remember Her

Bela's tousled hair fans out on the pillow, tangled strands trailing down her neck as she slept. Her fingers are wrapped in a loose fist around the cloth of Dean's shirt, and her hand is splayed out over his chest. He tries to dislodge her grip, but she merely growls against his chest, and tightens her fist. Her face burrows close to his side, her breathing soft and even against his ribs.

Dean pushes himself upright slowly, unwilling to disrupt her. The pale moonlight streaks in-between the blinds on the windows, and the tops of her cheekbones are gilded in silvery light. He glances down at her, and feels his heart stop.

She's angelic, her cheeks flushed from sleep, and expression peaceful for once. His gaze traces over her stubborn chin, the long lashes fluttering against the tops of her cheekbones. The clear skin, and straight, aristocratic nose. She's beautiful, but looking at her face, Dean sees more.

He sees the tiny scar disappearing into her hairline where she got two stitches from a knife fight when she was only fifteen. He sees the soft set to her mouth, which she never has when awake. He sees a faint bruise along her jawline, and knows she got it three days ago while crawling around in a ventilation shaft. He sees the purple shadows beneath her eyes, and the subtle trembling of her lashes, which he knows means she's dreaming of a heist tonight.

He takes another look at the tranquility in her features, the gentle curve of her lips.

This is how he wants to remember her.

He swings his legs off of the bed, careful not to make a sound. The last thing he wants to do is wake her.

He stops at the door, his hands shaking. Because he knows that walking out that door is something he will never be able to take back.

Decides to take one last look, knowing it will be his downfall. Knowing that she is his downfall.

Bela purrs happily into the bed, throwing one leg over the blankets. Dean resists the urge to cover her back up.

She gets cold at night, thrashing around the bed. Who will cover her back up after she tosses the sheets off? Who will hold her while she screams in her sleep? Who will make her tea at two in the morning, and rub circles into her back until she's warm?

Dean won't be around to do it anymore.

The thought twists his heart, but he grits his teeth. Strengthens his resolve.

Turns his back on her - literally and figuratively.

Tries not to think of how cold, and confused, and lonely she's going to be in two hours when she wakes up alone with her sheets at her ankles.

He wants to remember her the way she looked, asleep, under the moonlight - safe, relaxed. Peaceful.

She'll be angry, he thinks. But angry is okay.

He can deal with her being angry. He just doesn't want her to be sad.

And he's sure leaving will keep her the safest. She'll realize it, one day.

She'll be grateful, Dean convinces himself falteringly.

He leaves before he has time to change his mind.

Two hours later, Bela wakes up. Cold, and confused, and lonely, with her sheets rumpled at her ankles.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I don't like to think of Dean leaving Bela ever, but if he did, I like to think he would have done it something like this. The teenage AU is still in the making, so please be patient, and prompts and requests are always welcome. Thank you reading, and I always appreciate a review. Critique is my life, so don't be scared to give me feedback, and I love hearing what your favorite parts were. **


	6. Little Velvet Box

What the hell was love, anyway?

Was it the way Dean's hands shook as he stitched up Bela's shoulder, his features twisted in pain as if it was his own skin he was driving the needle through? Was it the pressure of his hands on hers as they danced, the sensation sending shivers down her spine as if she was a teenager? Was it the fear concealed by anger when he found her drunk in the middle of Rio, wasted, at three o'clock in the morning?

Was it the way Bela had locked her fingers around the back of Dean's neck and dragged his face close to hers in the back of a taxi, desperation in the scrabbling of her fingers at his shirt buttons, need in the shaky breaths she heaved in?

Her chest constricting with the brush of his lips on hers. Her skin hot, her hands cold. Her toes curling inside of her shoes, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her body quaking, muscles wound tight, eyelids fluttering shut. Lashes skimming his skin as he dropped kisses along her jaw. Hands.

Hands everywhere.

Hands in her hair, rumpling it, tousling it, loosening pins, and causing a waterfall of burnt amber silk to cascade over slim creamy shoulders. Hands trailing down the sides of her body, hands massaging the knots in her back, hands tracing every dip of her body and the curve of her shuddering spine.

His mouth. Moving.

But not talking, which she loves, because words always seem to mess them up.

His mouth laving kisses down the exposed column of her arched throat, her head thrown back to enable him better access. In the dark, she glows, her bone structure illuminated by streetlights flickering over her cheekbones and her hair streaked with moonlight.

His mouth blazing a path from her clavicle to her naval, his mouth dotting kisses along her hips and ribcage and the indent between her collarbones, and then finally the sweet curve where her shoulder meets her neck, because X marks the spot.

Mmm. That mouth.

Those lips.

His teeth nipping her ear, tongue swiping over her pulse points.

Back to his mouth again, but with words, which pisses her off, because words always seem to mess them up.

And he's whispering that he loves her, loves her deeper than her sexy silk dresses and gorgeous emerald eyes. Loves her deeper than her perfect legs and slender waist, deeper than her wealth and Queens penthouse.

He's whispering into her neck that he loves her soul, and the scary part is that she might believe him. He's whispering into her hair that he wants her more than anything, and needs her even more than that. He's staring into her eyes and he looks so serious she wants to laugh or cry or kiss him, but before she gets a chance to do any of those things, he's fumbling at the bedside table, his normally graceful fingers clumsy.

And pulls out a little velvet box.

The world stops spinning on its axis for a few seconds, or maybe a few years. It's hard to tell when there's no oxygen being sucked into your lungs.

He grabs her hand and pulls her close, and she can feel the hammering of his pulse against her hand.

He asks her to marry him, and it's beautiful and perfect, and more than she could ever hope for, but after those four little words – _will you marry me _– she doesn't remember anything except how green his eyes were, and how she felt when he looked at her.

Bela might not know what the hell love is, but she thinks whatever little screwed up thing they share might be close.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So...yeah, I don't know what this is exactly, but it happened and I hope you guys liked it. I know it was really..trippy and weird, and very different from my usual style of writing, but I sort of felt like playing around with different styles. Thanks for reading and please review!  
><strong>


	7. A Great Mom

"The neighbors saw you break into the house yesterday."

Bela arched her brows at her husband as he hung up his keys on a hook by the door. Dean untied his shoe laces and kissed her on his way to the cabinets. Bela watched him get a glass and crossed her arms over her chest. "It doesn't count as breaking in if you're eight months pregnant and need to use the loo, Dean."

He grinned at her, filling the glass with a pitcher of iced lemonade on the kitchen table. "The kids wanted to know why you carry a full set of lock picks in your purse. And why your earrings double as tension wrenches."

"None of their business," Bela huffed. She eased a hip onto the breakfast island, her left hand rubbing circles absently over her swollen belly. "Maybe I should ask them why they're so loud when they sneak out of the house in the middle of the night."

Dean smirked at her indignant pout. His wife was just too cute sometimes. He crossed over to her, pressing another kiss to the top of her head. "How do you feel?"

"Pregnant," she replied shortly. "It isn't a very pleasant feeling."

"Sam said Jessica's pregnancy went smoothly," Dean frowned, eyeing her carefully. She did look tired, he thought worriedly. Dark shadows circled her eyes and her temper, although never generous, was considerably shorter.

Bela snorted inelegantly. "Jessica is a beautiful being of light," she said, rolling her eyes fondly. "She bloody glowed throughout her pregnancy. She never had morning sickness, the delivery took half an hour. She's just an insanely lucky woman."

"I guess the same doesn't apply to you," Dean remarked heavily, his gaze tracing over the pale tinge in her cheeks, and the way she leaned into the counter.

"Well, carrying another person inside you is quite an exhaustive task."

Dean pressed his forehead against hers and pressed her close to him. The feeling of her curved midsection had him grinning down at her. "One more month to go, Lugosi."

"One month is too damn long," Bela sighed into his collarbone. "And then we still have to pick a name…"

"One thing at a time."

"I'm not naming her Deanna."

"Well, I'm not naming her Evelyn."

"Dean. Evelyn is a perfectly acceptable, very beautiful classic English name," Bela began heatedly, emerald eyes lighting up as they always did when she argued.

Dean nudged her towards a chair. "Sit."

Bela didn't budge. Planting her feet firmly, she ignored the ache in her lower back. "I am perfectly capable of standing up, Dean. Being pregnant does not equal handicapped."

"You just told me you were exhausted," Dean pointed out. He nudged her towards the chair again, a bit more forcefully this time. "_Sit_, Bela."

"Fine. But only because you insisted." Dean rolled his eyes at her snappy reply, but couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from curling up. He sat next to her, and wound his long fingers through her slender ones. "Hey, Lugosi?"

"Yes?"

"You're going to be a great mom." He held her gaze, willing her to believe it. "Really."

She shifted uncomfortable in her seat. "Oh, I don't know about that," she said lightly, jangling her foot up and down with sudden nerves. "A great thief, for sure. But I wouldn't bet on being a great mother." She looked a little fragile in that moment, her features uncertain. Insecurity glimmered in her eyes and her mouth turned down slightly at the corners.

"I would," Dean told her quietly. He watched thinly-veiled emotion flicker in her eyes and felt her pulse scrambling under his thumb. "I love you."

She blew out a heavy breath. "I-I know."

"And I love this baby."

Her gaze flitted away, then back to his. "I think I do too."

"I know," Dean said, echoing her. "That's why I know you're going to be a great mother. You have so much love to give, Bela."

He squeezed her hand and Bela squeezed back.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hey there! I'm sorry it's been so long since I last updated. Teenage AU is still on hold, inspiration has left me in that department. I'm still taking suggestions, though. Thanks for reading, and please review. Critique is always welcome. :)  
><strong>


	8. First Day

Bela slid in her seat just as the warning bell rang, suppressing a sound somewhere between a yawn and a sigh. She glanced around, taking in the bright posters and chatting students scattered around the room, and nearly groaned.

High school was an inevitable wasteland of teenage boredom and spoiled brats. Combine that with the toxic pressure for academic success, cut-throat attitude of competing athletes, and pretentious teachers pretending to be both intellectually and morally superior than their oblivious students, and there was a perfect recipe for hell.

Still, there wasn't much she could do about it. It was the first day in a new school, and as much as Bela loathed pompous teachers and obnoxious teens, there was no getting around the fact that she needed to get on their good sides for this year to be as painless as possible.

Well, at least the teachers. The kids could hate her for all she cared.

The rest of the class straggled in a minute or two before the late bell rang, prompting the teacher to clear his throat and begin speaking. "Hello, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Mr. Marshall. I'll be teaching you eleventh grade English this semester…"

The teacher droned on about the importance of paying attention during class and what a challenging yet fun semester it was going to be. Bela tuned him out thirty seconds in, her attention wandering.

The door of the classroom flew open suddenly, and Bela jumped in her seat, her head whipping around to stare at the stranger. The teacher stopped talking and turned to give the boy in the doorway a disapproving look. "Yes, I've heard about you, Mr. Winchester. Your last school had some very disturbing things to tell us about you."

The class was silent. The boy shrugged carelessly. "I'm sure," he drawled.

He sat next to Bela in the back, and she tried not to stare too long in her curiosity. He looked like trouble, she decided. Tall, well over six feet, with big hands and glimmering green eyes, clad in a scuffed black leather jacket and faded jeans, his entire aura emanated trouble. Bela's hands twitched and she busied herself taking her notebook out, beginning to jot down notes of what the teacher had moved on to lecture about just to distract herself.

Maybe this class wouldn't be all that boring after all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is the first part of the teenage AU where Bela and Dean go to high school together! Thanks for reading and I hoped you all enjoyed it. If this gets enough positive reviews from people who think I should continue, I'll post more of it. I guess this is turning more into a story than a drabble series, but eh. Review and critique please! :) **


	9. Blue

Their love is blue.

Not cerulean, or teal, or azure, or periwinkle, or indigo, or aquamarine.

Just blue.

Blue like warm ocean waves, and the way Bela looked that sultry July day; streaks of gold shimmering in her tousled hair, flushed rosy-pink with laughter. A string bikini clinging to every dangerous curve, a pair of stark white sunglasses perched on the top of her head.

Blue like spring skies, gentle breezes rustling the hem of her flirty skirt and pulling at the corner of the picnic blanket they were sprawled across. Belas chest, her hand in his hair. Her thumb stroking his cheek, dipping lower to feel the stubble at his jaw. Her lashes fluttering against his shirt. And hes afraid to move and ruin the moment.

She falls asleep eventually, and his arm goes numb, but she feels like heaven snuggled up to him. He flexes his fingers and tentatively pulls her closer, breathing in the sweet scent of her skin.

He feels brave and ghosts a kiss to her forehead. The first, but not the last.

Blue like the motel sheets of their first hook-up, blue like the Tiffany box that the ring Dean proposes to her with is in. Blue like her favorite nightshirt that she ruins when she slops tea all down her front after catching sight of a collage of bruises adorning his ribcage.

Blue like the blankets wrapped around their firstborn, blue like the tears they both cry when they lose their second. Blue like the sapphires he buys her, blue like the flowers he plants in her garden.

Blue like the car they build together from scratch.

Blue like their love. Just blue.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hi! Thanks for reading and I hope you liked it. If so, leave me a flattering review that will make me squeal and giggle and blush...just kidding, critique is always welcome!  
><strong>

**P.S. *cough cough* Still waiting for feedback on the Teenage AU. *cough cough***


	10. A Problem

Dean shrugged out of his leather jacket a few minutes into the lecture, throwing it over the back of his chair, and getting his first good luck at the girl sitting next to him. Her hair was pulled into a complicated French braid, leaving her profile in clear view.

From what Dean could see, she was pretty, in an icy, upperclass kind of way. Not really Dean's type, but he was hardly going to sit here and listen to his English teacher lecture him about the significance of dangling modifiers, or whatever the hell the man was talking about now, when there was a fairly attractive girl a mere foot away.

Their seats were close enough that he could break the ice by bumping into her under their chairs and calling it an accident, but there was something in her ramrod posture, the intelligent glimmer in her eyes, that told him it would be a bad idea. In any case, she seemed to be absorbed in the lecture, and that didn't exactly make her his type.

Then again, he'd never hooked up with anyone so far out of his class.

It might be fun to try.

* * *

><p>The boy next to Bela was driving her insane.<p>

It was unfair, really, that he was outrageously good-looking to begin with, and that was distracting enough as it was. Thick dark hair, a killer jawline, long-lashed emerald eyes – was there a woman alive who could resist?

Then he had to add in that damn _trouble _factor. Glittering green eyes, a smirk playing around the edges of his mouth – oh, yeah. There was no doubt in her Bela's mind that he was six feet of pure unadulterated trouble, from the top of his head to the soles of his worn-out boots.

There was simply no two ways about it – he was breaking through every barrier she had up, and he hadn't even spoken to her.

Bela tried to force him out of her head. _Think about important things, _she scolded herself. _Like how you need to stay as far away from a bad boy as possible._

She let out a tiny sigh as her thoughts wandered back to English, safe territory. Bela knew she wasn't going to fail English no matter how little notes she took, or how much she daydreamed in class (it was, after all, _English_), but she wasn't about to let some random stranger waltz into her life and scramble her brain.

That wasn't how things worked with Bela Talbot. She was in control, always, and composed. _She _messed with people's emotions, _she _drove them insane with want, _she _ran the show. And gorgeous boys with dangerously sexy smirks and the scent of trouble lingering on them didn't fit into her life.

Content with her resolution of the issue, Bela checked the clock to see how much class time was left, and inadvertently made eye contact with the very boy she had just sworn to herself to ignore. And that didn't irritate her nearly as much as her suddenly elevated heartbeat did.

_Winchester, _Bela decided with equal amounts apprehension and curiosity_, was going to be a problem._

So she was forced to fight back. Just to show him who was boss.

* * *

><p>Dean wanted to break something.<p>

In the last twenty minutes, he had tried everything to get her attention. Bloody everything. He'd worked his body in those little movements that drove his last girlfriend crazy, he'd licked his lips, he'd shifted closer to her, brushed his foot against hers, attempted to talk to her twice, and even grazed his hand against her thigh as he retrieved his pencil. It was low of him, but he was feeling desperate.

All that, and that one look she'd sent him as she had glanced at the clock, that one millisecond-length stare, had packed more heat than anything he'd tried.

It was infuriating.

What made it worse was that he knew that, by all accounts and reasoning, she should have been all over him, although perhaps not literally since they _were _in English. Sitting in the back, it was true, but they couldn't exactly engage in a make-out session in the back of a classroom while the teacher gave a lecture about modal verbs.

And even if they could have, they wouldn't, seeing as Her Royal Highness was apparently so ridiculously unaffected by his efforts.

Dean could _feel _the girls in the room staring at him, watching him out of the corners of their eyes, twirling their hair around their fingers, giving him doe eyes. Even the other guys were checking him out, stacking up the new competition. He _knew _he was hot. He _knew _that if he used his looks, he could get a free pass from pretty much anyone – it was sad, but that was the superficial world they lived in.

He had almost concluded that she was a lesbian (in which case, no feelings were hurt and his ego could go back to being the size of a house) when she started her own little game.

At first, Dean thought she was just antsy.

But it didn't take him a long to realize that she was fighting back silently, every bit as hard as he had been before. With every sultry lift of her lashes, the heat of her gaze would flash with intensity and temper, and he figured out what she was doing.

She wasn't saying that he was hot, or that she wanted him, or even that she was flirting back. No, she was saying that she had moves to match his, and that he would be much more susceptible to them than she was to his.

All without opening her mouth, and somehow getting him to understand it.

Dean's eyes narrowed at her, the gears of mind whirring quickly.

Oh, yeah.

This would definitely be fun.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Time to tell me what you think! Dean's kind of exaggerated (Read: REALLY exaggerated) and I know that kind of chemistry is improbable and ridiculous, but eh, it just felt right at the time. And I like the thought of an arrogant teenage Dean and Bela shutting him down in that icy way of hers.**

**Hopefully this conveyed sexual tension and not hormones on acid. Thanks for reading and please review!**


	11. An Easy Kill

_You know that feeling? That tingling in your gut, that little sensation at the base of your spine? That feeling like a rope being pulled tight? Yeah, I'm about to tumble down and land with a splat. I'm about to make the jump with my eyes shut. I'm about to fall in love with you. _

You are the personification of elegance. Your eyes are emeralds and forests and shards of jade and the flutter of your lashes when you blink makes me cough up my heart onto your outstretched palm. Your words are dipped in gold and they glitter and flash as they slip gracefully from between your perfect lips.

I want to say something, but my words are clunky and slow and remain lodged somewhere in my diaphragm.

Your face is so beautiful it breaks my heart.

Your soul shines out of your smoky eyes, raw and unfiltered like the first drag off of a cigarette. It pumps its poison along the inside lining of your lungs, just as your soul shoves its way through your bronchi and settles deep below your sternum only to erupt out of your pores.

It swirls out of your open mouth like the words you bless with your silver-tongued charm and I try to steal it away with a kiss, but it melts away into thin air right before my eyes.

You try to smile at me through your sudden doubt and the tiny, trembling curve of your lips makes me want to cry. Your hands look different when they're not wrapped around their scepter.

The delicate strands of your sanity wind around my fingers as I stroke your hair and watch the moonlight flicker over the indent between your exposed clavicle. I try to pull them tighter, try to make them strong, but they snap under my caresses and shiver, broken, as they float to the ground to be crushed under our heels.

You inhale sharply, desperately, and the rush of cold mountain air burns down my trachea as though we were one.

Your words stutter out of your larynx, choked and strangled. I stare in bewilderment. The polished varnish of your sophistication has been chipped away to reveal the ugly words that lie shivering beneath, naked in their brutal honesty.

A flash of vaguely white teeth is all that's left of your once great grin, a beaten shadow of its former self. It stretches tight across your face, forced and fake, and I feel my ribs splintering, my spleen bursting as I watch.

Your muscles quiver. I thrust out a hand to help, but you wave it away, the clear pretense of control giving you all the support you need.

I remember, as I hold your frail hand, the times you were fierce and brave and wild. You were the moon and you orbited me like I was the Earth, like I was your entire planet, your entire world. You were fearless and I was drunk off the emotions thrumming along the column of my throat and the fire shooting down the curve of my arched spine.

You were a puzzle and a charmer and you had me wrapped around your finger and sitting in the palm of your hand in the time it takes a hunter to set up the bait.

And I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

But now, burned out from tempting fate too many times, you're weak and fragile. And I'm strong, trained by years of your manipulation and deceit. I thought you were a queen and you thought I was your king. It could have been perfect, would have been a fairytale, if only both of us truly understood the other.

You set out the bait before you understood your prey. I loved my queen before I knew the throne she sprawled across.

I fell for pretty, meaningless words and your glossy, superficial charm. I fell for beautiful bones and silk hair, I fell for the careless grace in your tiniest movements and the bladed cheekbones of a warrior.

I thought you were a hero and you were coming to save me. You didn't know I could save myself.

You saw easy prey, an easy kill. You ensnared me with roses and breezy charm until the air was so thick with the stars you painted for me that I couldn't breathe.

You saw it as a rescue when it was a kidnapping, a manipulation. You didn't want to save me, you wanted to capture me and lock me inside a golden cage.

I was a nightingale and you were the hunter. I flew free, above winding rivers and icy mountain tops, until you shot me down with your arrow of poisonous charisma, lulling an injured bird into a plush golden cage before I realized it had a lock.

And now, now you're dying and I'm smarter, stronger than you ever were. Before long, the only lasting memory of you will be tattooed across the inside of my pulmonary artery and locked away forever.

I let go of your hand for the last time and paint the sky with shimmering stars made from your tears.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm not going to lie, this is probably the most far-out thing I have ever written. I was experimenting with poetry, but I found it difficult, so I modified it so that the poetry came in choppy vignette form. I mixed in a few random anatomy parts, because I felt like this was so spacey it needed something physical to ground it. It's...weird, no denying it, but hopefully you liked it and struggled along.

My inspiration was of Bela's personality, which is obviously broken and damaged and jaded, exaggerated into poisonous charm. And Dean, who is funny and hopeful (remember, we're working with season 3 personalities here!), is exaggerated into a sweeter, younger, more naive man. As the story goes, Dean realizes that Bela isn't who she pretends to be (strong,independent, brave, fearless) and is actually a mess with an incurable broken heart, suffocating him. As she fades away, he regains control of his life and understands for the first time who she really was, and who _he _really is.

If you suffered through all of that, bless your heart and I love you. Please leave a review, especially one with a favorite line or part (if you can find one within this mess!), because I have never really tried poetry before, and I'm _so nervous_. Terrified, actually. I've worked on this for weeks. I hope you liked it.


	12. Chemistry

_…__molecular geometry…_

_…__colloids and suspensions…_

_…__stoichiometry…_

_…__galvanic cells…_

Ugh, mind-numbingly boring, incredibly easy, impossibly tedious chemistry. Frustratingly, selfishly keeping her from doing something more constructive with her time.

_Like Dean…_

"What're you thinking about?"

"You," Bela replied absently, the answer spilling truthfully from her lips before her brain caught up. Her head jerked up a second later, and her cheeks flushing slightly at the admission. "I mean…um, what I meant was-"

"I hope you were thinking good things," Dean teased her, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Horrid," she told him primly, adjusting the notebook on her lap. "They weren't nice thoughts."

Dean narrowed his eyes playfully at her, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Dirty thoughts?"

Bela laughed outright, her eyes glittering with humor. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Why shouldn't I? It's not like you do, mean old thief that you are," Dean shot at her, warming up to her banter.

She made an exaggeratedly offended expression, clutching a hand to her heart. "Oh, you wound me."

"I'd sure like to."

"Please." Bela tossed back her head, confidence radiating off her in waves. "You love me."

"Mmm, debatable."

She scoffed under her breath, her gaze returning to the notebook on her lap.

"Excuse me, I don't need your sass."

Bela shot him a pained look. "I didn't even say anything."

"You flickered your eyelashes at me! You did that thing where you look down, but you flicker your lashes twice-"

"You mean blink? Because, yes, I did indeed blink; it's a human being thing, you wouldn't know-"

"This is the attitude I'm talking about. This right here is the sass."

"I'm not sassy. I'm trying to study."

"Well, you're failing miserably."

"Yes, and I hope that won't extend to the exam I'm taking tomorrow! Dean, this could jeopardize my entire Chemistry grade."

"Bela, please, you're not going to fail a _Chemistry _exam."

"Well, I'd know that for a fact if you would let me bloody study!" Bela lifted a hand and shoved a handful of chaotic curls behind her ear, massaging her neck with a wince.

Dean watched her, head cocked to the side. "You want me to…?"

"No! Absolutely not. Your hands might as well be registered as lethal weapons, because if you start giving me a massage right now, that book is going to be the last thing from my mind for at least the rest of the night, and then I'll fail the exam, and if I fail, I might as well be dead, De-"

_Too late. _In two strides, he'd crossed to the couch she occupied, slid her onto his lap despite her half-hearted attempts to push him away, and began loosening the knots of her neck.

"Oh, no," Bela whispered, her eyes fluttering shut. "This is the end. You've ruined me."

"You're so dramatic," he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the hollow beneath her ear.

"Mmm," she purred, her head falling back onto his shoulder. "You know what, Dean?"

"What?"

"Since you're already right here…"

"Yeah?"

"You might as well quiz me on chemistry while you give me my massage."

His hands paused on her shoulders for a moment, and she grinned up at the ceiling. Opening an eye with a Herculean effort, she rolled her sore neck around to look at his irritated expression.

And almost burst out laughing.

"Falling in love with you was the most masochistic thing I could possibly have done," he gritted out, scowling petulantly at her grinning face.

"I love you too."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: After the weird and mildly depressing last chapter (thanks to all of you who reviewed, it meant the world to me!), I wanted to give you guys a cute little drabble. It's set in college (I literally don't care at all how improbable this setting is, I love it), and I just absolutely fell in love with the casual affection in this atmosphere. Also, Bela/Dean banter, which is always fun!**

**This is dedicated to the goddess Charmita, my sun and moons. :)**


	13. Dial Tone

The club was dimly lit, cloudy with cigarette smoke, and the walls pulsed with the bass from the live band. Dean's ears ached from the roar of the music, but he reached for another shot of Stoli anyways. He'd managed to drag himself out of moping for a night; he was going to give himself alcohol poisoning if it was the last thing he did.

Which was sort of the plan.

Sam returned from the bathroom, scanning the crowded room for Dean. He arrived at the table just in time to see Dean accidentally knock over his bottle of liquor, ruining his jeans.

"Well, shit," the older Winchester slurred, his eyes blearily focusing on Sam. "I think…I think we need another bottle, Sammy."

"I think we need to go home," Sam replied, impatience evident in his constricted tone. "Come on, Dean."

"What? No, I'm just getting started, Sammy."

"We're _leaving_, Dean."

"Make me."

Ten minutes and a dramatic showdown later, Sam was dragging Dean into a cab, his temper smoldering. He had thought it would be good for Dean to get out and about and when Dean had suggested a club, Sam had jumped on the opportunity.

That, he realized, had been a mistake.

The drunker Dean got, the more he talked about Bela. The entire reason Sam wanted Dean to get out was to forget about Bela, and their breakup, talk to people, maybe have a random hookup or three.

But apparently Dean had other plans, because the only name he had said all night was Bela's.

How intelligent she was, hoe beautiful she was, how talented she was. By the time midnight rolled around, Dean wouldn't shut up about _exactly _how gorgeous her laugh was, or the precise shade of green her eyes were.

And now, as if he wasn't pathetic enough, here he was drunk dialing her again.

"Dean," Sam groaned as the dial tone filled the back of the cab. "She's not picking up. Just stop, calling her, man."

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean mumbled. "She's going to pick up _one _day. I love her. She loves me."

"Dean…" Sam faltered, then gave up. It wasn't like it was the first time Dean had called her drunk. Unfortunately.

Beside him, Dean clutched the phone as if it were a lifeline. "Bela?"

"Dean?"

"Bela. I miss you."

Silence.

"I love you."

Her voice was pinched as she replied. "Dean, please. You're drunk."

"Doesn't change the fact that I love you."

"Dean, we're not together anymore."

"But we _could _be."

"No, we couldn't. We've tried that before, Dean."

"I'll try harder." A pleading note entered his voice as he added, "Please, Bela. I love you so much."

Her breath hissed out in a whoosh. His palms were slick with sweat. "Don't do this."

"I know you love me."

"You have to stop calling me!" The words tumbled out of her mouth, furious, terrified. "Dean, you have to stop."

"I know." He leaned his forehead against the window of the cab. "God, I know."

"You can't do this anymore. _I _can't do this anymore."

He squeezed his eyes shut. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with whiskey and agony. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Bela whispered, her breath hitching on a sob.

She hung up and the drone of the dial tone filled the back of the cab once again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hello! I know, I know, it's been ages since I last updated here, but I've been both desperately busy and incredibly lazy, haha. Please review (it's good karma, if you're into that kind of thing) and thank you so much for reading! :)**


	14. Torn Shirt

He'd always known she was beautiful. He's known it from the second he'd laid eyes on her. And then he'd shrugged off the information and focused his attention to countering her wicked tongue and deflecting her wit during banter. Now...well. Now he could think of a few different reasons why her mouth was wicked, starting with the tiny little half-smirk she gave when she went in of the kill during an argument and ending with the way she ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip whenever she did any difficult chemistry work.

There was a lot to be said about the way she put up her hair, for one thing. She'd loosen her hair for a brief few seconds, releasing it from its band and allowing it to tumble over her shoulders. And the way she looked when she tossed it back up, angling her neck to brush the loose strands off her jaw and sweeping her hair back into a ponytail...the way her ponytail brushed the tops of her shoulders when she lifted her chin, the sun glinting off the tousled chocolately ends...the way her throat looked when she tilted her head back, slim with sleek lines along the column...

And no matter how many times he watched her do it, casually running her fingers through her hair as she pulled it back into a careless little ponytail, it never failed to set him on slow burn. Every time, he thought about how badly he wanted to press a kiss right there, in between her exposed collarbones. How he ached to feather kisses along the column of her throat, beneath her jaw, feeling her pulse scramble beneath his lips. How his fingers twitched, desperate to slide a hand behind her neck and kiss her, long and hard while his other hand tangled in her hair.

And then back to her mouth, which was always curving around a fresh sarcastic quip, her tongue flirting with sassy remarks and playful insults. Quick to laugh and equally quick to lash out when provoked.

She was undeniably the whole package, beauty and brains, guts and gumption, but then there were the tiny little things about her that kept him so deeply intrigued. Her musical preference, which ranged from classic 80s rock to classical piano and violin to rap to country and alternative and pop. Her literary interests, as varied and fascinating as her musical tastes; her fashion sense, which reflected her personality as accurately as imaginable. Sexy, fun, youthful. Comfortably, casually athletic.

She was a fascinating cocktail of temperament, ego and intelligence; the original nonconformist. Intense. Passionate. Focused. Cynical. Kind. Intelligent. Vivacious. Loving. Beautiful.

Oh, he had a problem, alright.

A problem with a cocky smirk and killer instincts and long lashes and a hideous temper. A problem with daddy issues and perfect skin and a knack for arguing - and winning. A brazen problem with a sharp tongue and long, lean legs.

Probably, he figured, the worst, and best, kind of problem to have.

The boy was slowly murdering her.

It hadn't escaped her notice that he was handsome, not by a long shot. But she'd been so preoccupied with winning their arguments and challenging his intellect with her own that she hadn't had time to think about it. Now, she was finding it difficult to notice anything else.

The way he sprawled out whenever he occupied any seat, his posture relaxed and lazy. His ankle crossed overtop the opposite knee, head thrown back as he stretched. The hem of his shirt lifted an excruciating few inches, revealing a sliver of toned abs for the briefest few seconds.

Oh, athletic boys were her weakness, but add artist into the mix and it was a done deal. His long fingers wrapped around a pencil, sketching meticulously, brow furrowed. Tiny pout gracing usually smirking lips, eyes narrowed as they examined the sketch critically. The sheer control he had over his hands made her wonder what else he could do with them...

And his body. Mmm. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, and a solid eight inches taller than her. It pissed her off, because she liked to be able to look people in the eyes when she argued, and when they argued, she always found herself looking up. Lean muscle wrapped around his body, his torso driving her insane when he took deep breaths.

She wasn't sure, but she thought it might have begun the day he wore that white button-down. That damn white button-down. One second she had been fine, pretending to pay attention in English, when something in the way he was looking at her made her jolt. Something in his eyes sparked a fire in her gut, and the next second, she'd been itching to tear that shirt in two in order to get it off him fast enough.

That intelligence. She had no defense against intelligence like his. If athletic boys were her weakness, then intelligence boys were her Kryptonite. Witty, clever, argumentative - a tongue like hers had to be sharpened, regularly, and she'd found his more than suitable. Challenging, intelligent, unpredictable, their banter was charged with enough sexual tension to be considered foreplay.

Oh, she'd done it now. There was no easy way out, she thought with a smirk, so she might as well get out with a torn shirt.

**A/N: Hey, guys! This is a follow-up to the teenage AU that I haven't updated in a while (sorry!) and it's just a little drabble-ish thing to get the muse going again. I know A LOT of you really liked the college and high school AUs, and so did I, so I'll be working on those for the next few weeks. It's hard not to love the hormone-crazy, adorably affectionate atmosphere, right?!**

**As always, thanks for reading, please review, and leave me prompts for the high school AU! I love ya guys. :)**


	15. Money

"I'm killing myself trying to get scum off the streets and you're spinning your wheels springing them out of jail."

"I'm just doing my job, Winchester. _I_ happen to actually be good at what I do."

Bela Talbot's law firm was as posh and elegant as the woman herself and nearly as cold. Glass dominated, making up everything from the wall-to-wall windows to the tables in the reception area to the dividing wall behind the receptionist's desk. Steely chrome lent an air of classy competence while the architecture's clean lines and interior design's crisp cream-and-black color scheme gave an impression of classic, androgynous style.

Dean Winchester was not impressed.

"How do you do it? How do you make a living out of defending killers? How do you sleep at night?"

Bela trailed a finger along the length of her black leather briefcase, which lay open on her ruthlessly organized desk. When she looked up, the quirked corner of her mouth matched the lift in her brow. "On silk sheets," she replied, her tone cool as ice. "Rolling around naked in money."

-  
><strong>AN:** So obviously this wasn't a real drabble, but it's a little snippet from a lawyer AU I'm working on and off on. Please let me know if you'd like me to continue with it and as always, leave me ideas for new drabble/fics/whatever floats your boat. :) Love you precious reviewers, and I'm sososo sorry it took this long to update!


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